


Chin Up

by Tovaras



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Dorian Has Self-Esteem Issues, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-10
Updated: 2016-03-10
Packaged: 2018-05-25 22:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6213283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tovaras/pseuds/Tovaras
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dorian is handsome, charming, intelligent and he is not afraid to show that to the world.<br/>Problem is, he doesn't believe it himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chin Up

**Author's Note:**

> We all suffer from insecurities from time to time: I know I do. So I have transfered some of my thoughts, my reactions and attitude to Dorian because he is not as confident as he pretends to be. And I love him so much for it.

_‘Chin up._

_Eyes straight ahead._

_Smile, mustn’t forget to smile._

_Are the clothes clean and complimenting? Of course they are, they always are._

_Hair brushed, styled, fixed to perfection._

_Breathe in and out. Smile. Posture proper, back straight._

_Don’t let them see the insecurity in your eyes. Never let them see, never let them know._

_Be confident. Be charming._

_Don’t let them see, don’t let them know._

_Never let them know.’_

***

Old habits were hard to break and Dorian knew that better than anyone.  
Even after he came to the south, where he didn’t need to pretend anymore, he kept the mask up.

Always smiling, always laughing.  
Ever the charmer, ever the pariah.

That was one thing that seemed to follow him around like a foul smell.  
In Tevinter, he was an outcast for his believes, for his dreams, for his preferences. How dare he think differently, act differently. How dare you not to be one of us?  
In the South, he was an outcast simply because of who he was. A Tevinter noble mage; everything that the people of the south seemed to hate.

It didn’t matter that he had thrown it all away to help the Inquisition, but some things he couldn’t get rid of unless he wanted to lie.  
He could lie and say “nonsense, I am not from Tevinter, I hail from Nevarra”, but what would be the point? The people would never know that there were good people in Tevinter if he tried to hide, so he didn’t hide. He had fled from Tevinter because he couldn’t lie, didn’t want to lie and he’d be damned if he was going to start that here.  
He carried his legacy, his country’s legacy, everything that he was and believed in on his shoulder and he pretended that the load wasn’t heavy.  
But it was heavy, very heavy and the load just kept growing with each sneer, with each vile comment, which each look of distrust.

_‘Chin up._

_Eyes forward._

_Don’t let them see, never let them see.’_

It was almost a mantra, a prayer that had been wedged into Dorian’s brain ever since he was a child. He could hear his mother and father’s voice in his head as they chastised his posture, his behavior, his appearance, everything.  
He had been forced to learn and learned he had.

The comments hadn’t stopped, just because he had left Tevinter.

_“You are not as charming as you think you are, Dorian.”_

_“Better that than a pompous brat.”_

_“If you wish to make amends for past transgressions, free the slaves of all races who live in Tevinter today.”_

_“I could ask the same thing of a pampered noble Tevinter.”_

_“Better an exotic peacock than one Tevinter rat amongst many.”_

Words, merely words, some with less bite behind them than others, but Dorian remembered them. Carried them, tried to do better, tried to get over it, tried to forget.

He couldn’t forget.

As a child and as a young adult he had spent many a day in front of the mirror, fixing flaws only he could see, trying to look his best, act his best.  
In time, the reflection that stared back at him had not turned prettier, but uglier. All the words, all the comments, it buzzed in his head until all he could see was the ugly inside of him.

Drunkard. Whore. Rat. Brat.

Not charming.

No teeth.

No good.

He had lost count on all the times he had swallowed his pride along with the bile that came with those words, with the stares and the loneliness.  
He had smiled, chin up, eyes forward, looking perfect as he mingled with the Inquisitor, the Inner Circle and commoners alike.

He didn’t try to be better than then, he just tried to be –better-.

It worked when he was among people. His upbringing had seen to that.  
In public, he was perfect. Always perfect; bright smiles with white flashing teeth, a charming comment here and there.  
Some said he was winning people over, others said that he was detested.

It didn’t matter. He was his own worse critic anyway.  
Which was why he spent so many lonely nights in his room, staring at his reflection, wondering if it was possible to hate oneself more. He wasn’t sure.  
He would stare and hate until he got the strength to pull himself away, reinforce his walls and face the world as it came.

It didn’t always work.  
Sometimes the walls would break. 

It would start as cracks when small thoughts would escape, making him pause, hesitate.  
Sometimes he would be able to patch it up, but sometimes…

Sometimes the walls would come crashing that and with it, everything that he held bottled up inside, spilling out.

He had lost count on how many mirrors he had broken in a fit of rage over the years. 

He broke less of them after coming to Ferelden, but not because he felt better.  
He just held himself together more tightly.

Still, there was many a time when he had curled up in a ball on his bed or in a corner, sobbing his eyes out as the demons inside his head clawed and tried to come out.  
He almost wished it was demons from the fade that came for him; he could handle those, beat those.  
No, it was the demon inside himself, wearing his face, telling him all the words he had been told as he grew up and making them hurt even more.  
He had clawed at his face, tugged at his hair, dragged his nails up over his arms and neck as he cried ugly tears, not even caring about the loudness of his sobs. He had chosen a room that was far away from the others for that very reason.  
He could cry hard, for a long time until he was exhausted. Most of the time he would drink as well, needing and craving the burning sensation as the alcohol slid down his throat and numbed him from the world.  
It was a poor solution, but it was the best one he had.

When the morning came, the mask came back on, his scratches were healed and he would smile.

_‘Chin up._

_Eyes forward._

_Smile, don’t forget to smile.’_

Because why should anyone care? He was a nobody from Tevinter. His status or position was worth less that crap, he couldn’t even use it to aid anyone because he was, as Vivienne said, a toothless shark.  
All bark, no bite.  
All words, no action.

So he continued to pretend. Continued to be better. Continued to smile.

_“You let it keep hurting, because you think hurting is who you are. Who would you do that?”_

Cole knew and Dorian suspected that he was the only one who knew the truth.  
A mask meant nothing for a spirit that could dive into people’s minds in search for hurt and Dorian… Dorian had enough hurt for him to find.

He had tried to deflect him, tried to explain just enough for Cole to leave him alone, but he didn’t. He wanted to help, the poor boy, but Dorian wouldn’t let him.

He wasn’t sure that Cole’s special brand of “helping” would do anything for him. The hurt was buried deep inside him and he was afraid that if Cole tugged it loose, everything would come crashing down. Dorian wasn’t sure if he had the strength to build it all up again alone.  
In fact, he was sure he would drink himself into a stupor and jump from the battlements in despair.

A tragic suicide from a broken soul.

Some might even shed a tear for him.

But Dorian didn’t want to die, not really. He had wanted to a couple of times, when he was younger, but he was afraid of the unknown. Tempted by the blade, tempted by the peace that would come in death, but afraid for his soul, for his afterlife.  
It was tricky, balancing on that very sharp blade, but he managed, if only just.

_‘Don’t let them see, never let them see._

_Don’t let them know, never let them know.’_

He tried to focus on the positive. He tried to remember what he had.  
He had friends within the Inquisition.  
People he had never expected to get to know, people that did not fit the Tevinter standard. Maybe that’s why they fit him so well.

They spoke to him, kind words. Honest words.  
Words Dorian so desperately wanted to believe.

_“Takes a tough man to do it, too. So good on you, you big old fop.”_

_“I like you, Dorian. Don’t ruin it.”_

_“Your magical skills are impressive, Dorian.”_

_“I’m just saying, you and I have… something in common.”_

_“I’m curious about you, too!”_

He called them friends. They called him friend and they showed it, in their own ways.  
It was so different from Tevinter, where every action, every word had to be considered and measured. Nothing was true there. Everything could hurt you.  
He caught himself still measuring, still considering, even now. Even though he believed the words to be honest.

Caught between a rock and a hard spot, wanting to break free, but feeling like he was making himself more and more stuck.

He would close his eyes, think of the times that were good.

Drinking with Bull and the Chargers, laughing and smiling, and trying not to get too drunk.

Playing Wicked Grade with the Inner Circle, swapping stories and jokes, and trying his best not to become too crude.

Playing chess with Cullen, who did not seem to mind that he tried to cheat at times.

Sharing books with Cassandra, trying his best not to fall back onto old sins and tease her.

He tried.  
Maker, he did try so very hard.

And then there was the Inquisitor…

Handsome, charming, kind, honest… Everything Dorian wanted, everything Dorian wanted to be, but finding both prospects just as unlikely.  
The Inquisitor, who so kindly helped Dorian speak with his father, even defended him and stood up to him.  
The Inquisitor, who stood by him when Mother Giselle accused Dorian of corrupting him.  
The Inquisitor, who had called him brave for standing up for what he believed was right and for walking his own path.

The Inquisitor, who seemed so happy to see him, who gave him such a bright, honest smile.  
A smile that was warm, that made a room light up and that made Dorian feel good inside.  
A smile that was given so freely when Dorian was nearby.

A special smile just for him.

Dorian wanted to see that smile all the time.

_‘Chin up._

_Eyes forward._

_Make sure you look your best, appearance is everything.’_

He trusted the Inquisitor. Liked him. Called him friend, his best friend, even though he let himself dream.  
Dorian knew that he wasn’t supposed to, that things could turn bad if he did, but he couldn’t help himself.

The Inquisitor made it impossible to keep himself back.

The warmth, the radiance, the kindness… It sucked Dorian in and he let himself surrender to it.  
He had his walls up, he tried to protect himself. He tried to keep the ugly from slipping out, but the Inquisitor wanted to see. He wanted to see it all.

The Inquisitor cared.

The Inquisitor cared about everyone.

The Inquisitor cared about him.  
The Inquisitor wanted to help him in any way he could.

Dorian didn’t know if he could ever put away his mask. It was firmly in place; many years of training had seen to that.  
He never let anyone see him without it. Let nobody see how he felt inside.

His mess was his own, his pain was his own.

He wanted to fix it on his own.

But maybe, just maybe…

_‘Chin up._

_Eyes forward._

_Everything will be okay.’_

Maybe it was time to let his chin down.


End file.
